


Conniption

by Anesther



Category: Ava's Demon
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Gen, Horror, M/M, Mentions others, Romance, Will be added progressively to main tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-02 20:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16312445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anesther/pseuds/Anesther
Summary: A story of rage and its captive.





	1. Skrípi

**Author's Note:**

> A sin-swap fic that’s been in development since 2014. Never thought I’d put it up, not being a fan of AUs in general, but I saw potential, fleshed it out, and decided to publish it whenever Olai was introduced. Waited for some information of Odin’s planet to arrive, and that was an easy fix to add.
> 
> Being an AU, it won’t follow the storyline all the way, and be its own behemoth; but I will keep central aspects of the canon story, and upon new information with the comic’s updates, I will add whatever doesn’t interrupt the flow of this fic, while still being true to the source material.
> 
> The names for unknown characters are entirely my own OR are guesses to the real names, primarily the remaining hosts; once canon names are released, they will be edited in. It’s for ease and sake of writing. And I don't wanna wait 10 years.
> 
> Everything belongs to Michelle Czajkowski. This little idea is mine only. Feedback is neat!

  _You purchase pain with all that joy can give, and die of nothing but a rage to live._

_Alexander Pope_

-

Phantom

-

Odin awakens to the touch of his demon.

Propping himself on his elbows, he looks at her with annoyance, her body splayed on top of his.

Wrathia clicks her tongue, shaking her head, “Tsk, and here I thought you finally died in your sleep.”

“And now what would I be if I didn’t disappoint you?” he retorts, angling himself to rise from the bed, pushing through her psychical form.

Wrathia follows her host to the window, darkness peering back at them. The man looks out at endless rows of strong spruce, lining up further than his vision can see. In no time, the snow and ice will fall, the years fly by for him. Odin takes several breaths to slow his respiration. It always feels like his heart is beating much too fast.

The demon floats in front of him, obstinate, not liking to be ignored. She bears her teeth, “When are you going to listen to me?”

“Not my kind of fun,” Odin says, turning from the window and heading to a dresser. Opening one of the drawers, he rummages through the contents. Pulling out a simple cream-colored undershirt, a dark purple, long-sleeved shirt and black pants, he lays them on the bed. Wrathia watches him unabashedly as he removes his clothes to place these on. Having dealt with her so long, he’s immune to her ogling. He slips on boots and quickly fluffs his hair with his hands. Afterward, he wraps a belt through the pant’s loops, buckling it with a satisfying click. Looking at himself in the mirror, deeming his appearance presentable, he grabs his cape off the coat rack and adds it to the ensemble in a swift motion. Touching the mink fur lining the cloak’s edges, and insides, too, warm and soft against his frame, he takes peace in the familiarity.

Opening his door, he walks down the small hallway, past an empty dining room. Not wanting to eat, Odin continues past a minimalist kitchen. He stops at the front entrance, grabbing leather gloves and tugging them on, the material crinkling as he forms a fist, scrunching soundly as it rubs against itself.

Wrathia floats above him, holding her head up with a hand, pouting her lower lip. She scrapes her free hand down his neck, asking, "What are you doing first?”

“Hunting," he replies.

Wrathia perks up, toothy grin slicing her face.  
  
Odin takes a reprieve in the quietude. She never talks when he hunts.  
He grabs the bow and quiver of arrows that always rest by the door. Slinging the container behind his body, he tightens the straps securely. Holding the bow in his hand, the weight a comfort in his palm, he leaves his self-imposed bastille.

Odin steps out into the cold, frigid at these hours. The twigs and brown needles crunch beneath his feet. Letting out a sigh, he watches white wisps rise in the air, clear against a charcoal sky. Wrathia keeps at his side, trailing for several moments, his only source of light. She flickers out of view, plunging him into darkness. He walks, unfazed.

She returns several feet ahead, russet stars dancing in her hair. Ethereal fingers lazily scratch at a tree, unable to touch it, but attempting nonetheless.

A light rain descends on them, seeping into his hair. Wrathia scowls but says nothing. Soon, pine begins to drift into birch, water trickling down the tips of firs and running into the grooves of bark, pristine. It falls faster as he brusquely brushes past, landing silently on dead leaves. Stillness strings itself through the atmosphere. Every creature sleeps, avoiding the harshness outside their dens. The sun begins to creep above the horizon. Its rays piercing through. But everything remains in place, the world slumbering on.

Nothing but him and a ghost.

-

A deer collapses onto the ground, red trickling from its wound.

Odin waits for a moment. Cautiously, he emerges from behind a tree, approaching the animal.

A perfect shot.

He kneels down, the broadhead having struck veins and arteries, past thick, powerful muscle and right into the lung.

Thirty long seconds pass. He watches it go into shock, releasing one final breath.

He swipes its eyes closed, prying the arrow from its flesh. Wrathia flits over, leering over the kill, reminding her of distant times.

Odin cleans the head, shoving it carefully back into the quiver. Getting to his feet, he grips the animal by its antlers and starts to haul it across the deadening grass.

Wrathia floats beside him, reminiscing about her other life. Odin allows her to wander inside her thoughts, dragging the creature behind.

“You remembered to shoot low,” Wrathia suddenly says. “You’re not a complete, utter failure.”

“I never have been. I’m not the one who’s been dead for almost four seasons.”

Wrathia hisses, “I compliment you and this is what you say to me?”

Ignoring her, Odin marches onward into taller grass fields. Eventually, it clears to shorter grass, preceded by a meadow and its running stream. He walks over the small platform used to cross the water, not looking at it. The meadow is used to maintain easy vegetation, more pretty than anything, with its abundance of flora. He never comes here anymore, leaving it behind and entering through another large group of pine trees. But his destination is visible:  a large, foreboding building of stone and mortar. He doesn’t worry about the guards in their places, striding through the barbican with ease and into the bailey.

He is not approached however. He keeps his gaze forward, ignoring the folks in the bailey. He drops the deer at the massive entryway. He opens the double doors alone, stepping inside. He waits, Wrathia floating with her legs crossed, tapping her cheek impatiently.

“Odin!”

He turns, smiling, “Hello, Mother.”

Freyja raises the hem of her skirt to trot over to her son, embracing him tightly around the waist. Odin returns the hug fondly, kissing her head.

She pulls back, touching his face, “I didn’t know you were coming!”

He shrugs, “Spur of the moment, but I won’t be here long.”

Freyja frowns, disappointment marring her pretty features, “No? Not even for a few days?”

“I only came to bring the game,” he says, gesturing towards the deer at the door.

“Oh!” Freyja says, clapping her hands together. “Wonderful, darling! And you remembered not to drag blood in this time.” She nods at the men who stand at attention, hauling the animal with some endeavor, though Odin always made carrying objects appear effortless.

Odin sighs, “It was the _one_ time.”

Wrathia props her head on both hands, sticking out her tongue at the woman. Odin wraps an arm around his mother’s shoulders, the both of them strolling leisurely through the hall of his childhood home.

Freyja reaches up once more to touch her son’s face, delighted that he had come to visit! The occasions have become sporadic as he aged, and even rarer during the long winter months.

“Are you sure you can’t be here for a little while? When was the last time you even stayed here?”

“I came by for my birthday not long ago.”

“But you didn’t stay for longer than several hours,” she reminds him. “Which is still terrible of you, having just fulfilled one full year!”

“Mother…”

“And if I remember right, your last real visitation was only for five days back in early Sumerfrest.”

Odin internally readies himself for a barrage of pleas from his mother. It’s not difficult for him to understand why she is persistent on bringing him back. She misses him, the only child who left their home.

“Are you well stocked in supplies in your… house?”

“I am doing more than fine, Mom,” he answers, trying to be reassuring.

“I understand why you continue to do this, Odin, but there isn’t a need to keep going.”

Pulling away, Odin rubs the back of his neck with the hand that just held her, “It’s not that it… wouldn’t be terrible to come back, but I’ve already completed a full year around the sun. The redundancy of me returning would be a little much, don’t you think?”

“But you’re so far away from the rest of us, what if there is an emergency?”

“I’m only half an hour away on foot. There is no reason to fuss over me.”

Freyja stands with her arms akimbo, “Young man, I am your mother and I will fuss over you how I want.”

Tilting back his head, Odin can’t help a groan of frustration.

“I know, I know,” she placates. “But I only worry. You’re the heir to the throne, Odin. And precautions have to be taken.”

Odin meets her gaze directly, eyes similar and different from his own. He whispers, “What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”

Wrathia slinks behind him, holding onto his waist, possessive.

Freyja links arms with his, motioning to continue, saying, “I know why you must do this, but it doesn’t mean shutting us out completely either.”

Odin looks down at her, “I know, and I’m sorry about that at least…”

Wrathia grabs his free arm fully, leaning forward to glare at his mother with baleful, scorching eyes. “Why do you put up with this? As the rightful future king, you can behead her you know.”

He turns to his demon, “Would you stop that?”

Freyja’s face grows dark. She looks at the empty air with disgust. Turning her nose up at the apparition, she asks her son, “Must she come everywhere?”

“It’s how soul bonds work.”

Freyja wonders what to do about the alien queen that possesses her son.

From the time Odin was two-fifths old, he had been cursed.

Overtaken by merciless waters, her child drowned. She and her husband prayed to the gods to spare their son of such an untimely, and pathetic, death. To be granted the chance of a warrior’s pyre. They breathed air into him, watching liquid gush from his mouth; then rushed him back to the castle with the aid of attendants, and awaited a physician’s prognosis.

He had been fine. Recovered with no lasting physical detriments.

Then the odd behavior began.

He screamed with relentless ardor, climbing onto furniture, knocking over vases, books, and personal belongings. With strength unfit for a toddler, he’d throw objects around, stabbing the fabric on the walls, or tug at curtains until they unhinged from their rods. Each tantrum worse than the last, each tantrum a potential, final death.

He damaged his whole room to the point they needed designers to recreate his bedroom. It extended beyond that: Odin started bullying his brother, Olai, violently tugging at his hair or shoving him to the ground. Olai, ever the rebel, would have no qualm returning the fire, and it led to the boys being separated. Odin needed attention at night, sweltering beneath blankets and unable to sleep for longer than a few hours.

Rumors followed in wake of the young prince: star-crossed by the very gods they worship, the world above filled his mind with madness. A world meant to be visited once, and never to leave.

Freyja had wracked her brain with solutions. Bjorn called upon the elite of their planet: doctors, shaman, witches, priests and priestesses, to find the source of the issue. Freyja devoted herself to prayers for Frigg’s guidance, begging forgiveness for being an undutiful mother; Bjorn poured the blood of his finest war horse onto a statue of the Allfather. Both asked the gods to undo whatever punishment they sought to curse their son.

When nothing worked, they feared it would continue to spiral down.

One day, he spoke his first word.

“Pact.”

They figured his speech would come eventually, as talking can be delayed in some infants, but this… an unknown word, the lone sentence causing alarm to sink into the king and queen’s spines.

After that, it was the one thing he uttered, a mantra. He scribbled it as he echoed himself onto paper: images of razored teeth and eyes with pupils that were thin as needles.

For six months it continued this way. But the tantrums ceased. The need to quarantine Odin from his twin was lifted, and despite the unnerving way Odin focused on nothing, the castle settled into a routine again; they accepted their malcontent heir and treated him with as much care as before.

Freyja sat beside her child one afternoon, now three-fifths old, having celebrated the occasion as quietly as possible. His sulking was heavy, too heavy for a child. So she asked him to tell her what’s wrong. Hoping for an answer.

He turned to her with a malicious grin, “What’s wrong is that you aren’t dead.”

She recoiled in shock and confirmed their suspicions.

He was possessed.

Once more, they gathered anyone who could explain or undo this, but nothing ever happened in front of other people. Talk amidst the chaos, was that their queen was starting to lose her sanity. After hefty sums to keep rumors from spreading further, Bjorn and Freyja held a private session in a study, her study. Only them, and the beast that lay dormant in their child.

Peering up at his parents, Odin sat, confused.

“Listen to me, devil,” Freyja whispered, fury upon every syllable. “Release my son.”

Odin smiled, the grin _wrong_ , wicked, as his eyes shined with something horrible, “I can’t. Not until I get what I want.”

Bjorn stepped forward, surprised, but kept the control in his voice, “What do you want?”

“Your son’s soul. He has to pact with me.”

That word again. Bjorn’s stance was stiff, “Who are you?”

“I’m Wrathia Bellarmina,” Odin’s small face twisted into an arrogant sneer.

The parents stared at their child in dismayed surprise.

“You know who I am,” she said through young, mortal lips. “And who conquered me. I want revenge. From one queen to another, you must know what it’s like to lose your kingdom.”

Freyja bit her lip until she tasted iron. She murmured, kneeling, “Please… leave my son alone.”

“The only way to be rid of me now, is for him to die.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, her husband at her level, his hands on her shaking shoulders.

Anything they thought of would only lead to Odin’s death. And nothing they did would cure him.

In the years since he died, Freyja and Bjorn conceded that they would have to make do with their unexpected… guest. She still behaved with the ostentatious manner of an empress, causing friction in Odin’s day to day life. But knowing who she was and what they were dealing with, they managed to evade odder questions or more embarrassing aspects of this curse.

Freyja looks up at her son, alive and strong. The heir to the throne. She grabs his arm tighter. Comfort fills her as he folds his hand over her own.

-

Odin enters his old room, everything in place. It’s cleaned every day, in the hopes he will return from his secluded cabin in the woods.

Wrathia inspects the mantel shelf of the cast-iron fireplace, bored. Checking the rest of it, a hand raised over the front hearth, Wrathia leans forward. Peering up the chimney, unable to see the top, she comes out of it, remembering when the throat of it burned with flame. Wrathia turns to him, “Can we get a fire going?”

“What for? You wouldn’t feel it,” Odin replies, staring out the window.

Frowning, she comes over to smack him upside the head. Odin grimaces, glaring at her as she hovers high above him.

“Feel that, fucker.”

A headache suddenly forms behind his forehead, and Odin brushes her off. Sitting on the bay window seat, Odin leans against the wall. Wrathia takes a place across from him. Feebly, he attempts to kick her, unable to do damage.

“You want me to make your day terrible?” she asks, annoyed.

Odin tilts his head, gazing out the window. It’d be no more terrible than any other day. The people beneath his viewpoint go about their own lives, subjects and loyal staff. His family, despite their protests of him being gone, have learned to adapt without him constantly present. His life is separate from the rest of them all.

At a full Aedinfell year, he is no longer the baby doomed to die tragically, but the adult doomed to live tragically.

Despite his grievances at having Wrathia, though, he is still the prince to take over the kingdom. A duty to fulfill that had to be considered with care. No one knew what the outcome of his possession would entail.

All he knew was he had to do the best he could, despite it all.

Wrathia glides across the floor, sitting across from him. She stares at him for a long time, not saying anything. He, too, remains silent.

Finally, she breaks it, “You’ve become an adult on your planet.”

Odin looks at her.

She leans back against the window, unable to feel the cool glass. She tilts her head to the side, out at the forest, “A blink of an eye on my home planet. If you were a Vengess child, you would only _just_ be hatching from your shell. Did you know that about us?”

“Why are you reminiscing to me?”

“Isn’t that interesting, how time works? My species hatches, and then we live, in your terms, for twenty Aedinfell years. Your kind barely ever makes it past a common four years old, maybe even a rare five years old. Our times are vast in differences, but when I measure it by your standards, it dawns on me how exponential the life of a Vengess truly is.”

Odin raises an eyebrow, “Your point?”

“My point, is that if I were alive, and I knew you would hold me hostage in your body, I would’ve obliterated your planet the moment I took over.”

-

His sisters insist on playing a game.

Humoring them, surrounded by burning autumn colors, Odin awaits their instruction.

Crow turns to him, hands on her hips, “Alright, listen up, we’re gonna play knattleikr, got it?”

“Whatever you like.”

Raven tosses a wooden bat his direction. With a deft motion, Odin gives it two expert spins before thudding the tip of it on the ground.

“What’s the goal this time?” he asks.

“You remember how to play knattleikr.”

“Of course, but what are the stakes?”

The triplets grin at him, Magpie telling him, “If we win, you gotta get all three of us really nice birthday presents!”

Odin smirks, “Is that all? Not very creative.”

“Hey, if you win, we don’t beat you to a bloody pulp,” Crow replies, thwacking the side of her own bat into her palm.

Magpie jogs to him, “Besides, I’m on your team.”

“Crow and Raven going against me and you?” Odin raises a brow, laughing. He looks at his other sisters, “You are aware I’m good at this game, and bigger.”

“Oh, we’ll be fine,” Crow says.

Not bothering to dissuade them, the Arrow siblings trek through the trees, into an open clearing, with a shallow but large lake in the center. Raven points out the imaginary goalposts—the ends of the lake forming where each team will score. Entering the lake isn’t prohibited, simply going past it. Odin and Magpie hunch over, wielding their bats, in what they all concede is the middle of the field. Crow and Raven take similar stances, with Crow holding aloft a heavy ball made of leather and wood.

Then, she throws it into the air. And Odin narrowly dodges her wooden bat hitting the side of his head.

Magpie immediately counters by slamming her bat into Crow’s, leaving an opening in the air for Odin to grab the ball. Odin bolts away from them, taking four large steps, before smacking the ball into the air with his bat. Magpie appears from behind, clubbing it back his way. Odin catches it again, four more steps, and hits it over to her. They repeat this action a few times, with Magpie tossing the ball upward to hit it, when suddenly Raven barrels straight into Magpie’s body, causing the two of them to slam into the ground.

The ball thuds onto the grass, bouncing once. Crow sweeps in, forward rolling past it, and smacking the ball in the opposite direction soon as she stands. Raven had clambered off Magpie and ran to her other sister, the two of them knocking it back and forth on the ground.

Odin sprints after the two, and despite their smaller, quicker frames, he comes at them in no time. He slams his bat on top of the ball, halting it in place, causing the two to pause in surprise. Odin glides it to his feet, swinging the bat in one hand, to make it whirl across the grass where Magpie waits. It arrives at her feet, kicking it up to her chest and snatching it midair to rest underarm.

Raven yells at her, breaking into a run. Crow bangs her bat against Odin’s right calf, causing him to trip. He feels the sensation tingle through his muscles, feeling the formation of a bruise. Wincing, he glares at Wrathia, laughing in the distance.

Odin gets to his feet, focusing on the feeling of air in his lungs, rushing through to burn, feet contacting solid earth. Magpie is nearing the end of the lake, when he notices Raven lifting her bat overhead. She begins to swing it around as she sprints, eyes focused.

He throws his bat soon as she lets hers fly, the crash resounding in the air as the large, wooden bats collide—her bat mere inches from Magpie’s skull.

Raven skids to a halt, glaring at Odin, “No fair!”

Ignoring her, Odin rushes on. Crow comes up at his left, brandishing her weapon. He veers far to the right, her swing hitting where his chest had been. He arrives to where his bat lays, picking it up and hefting it over his shoulder. Magpie tosses the ball in the air, gripping the handle of her bat tight.

The contact of wood on wood shakes the air, hurling the ball into the distance. Landing just a few feet beyond the end of the lake.

“Yeah, first score!” Magpie cheers. She turns to Crow and Raven, “Ha!”

Odin pats her shoulder, smiling, “Great work!”

Raven scoffs, “You only made it ‘cause _someone_ had to block my aim.”

“You aimed at her head, Rae,” Odin says, deadpanned. “Can’t have Mom on us about that. _Again_.”

“Hey, all’s fair in knattleikr!” Raven protests, pointing at them with her bat.

Crow comes back with the ball, rolling her eyes. She turns to her siblings, “Big deal, you got one point. We got plenty of time to kick your ass.”

“Hope so, that performance could barely be called trying,” he says.

Raven stomps her foot, cursing at him as Crow’s face flushes in anger. Wrathia giggles beside him, eyes glittering, matching the light in his own eyes.

-

Odin returns to the castle, agreeing to dine with them and partake in activities, but nothing more. Freyja and Bjorn are all too happy to have that little luxury. Raven and Crow, despite losing, are delighted to have him home a little longer, eager to show him new additions to their weaponry, and Magpie wants to show him a new piano piece she’s been practicing.

Once dinner had been laid out on the table—the deer he had killed earlier being the main course—they all took their seats. Odin sits at his father’s right hand, in front of his mother, with his sisters lining in a row on her side of the table.

Odin glances at the empty chair next to him, but knows he can’t be far off. No sooner had he thought that, the doors open to allow Olai through. He looks at his brother, with eyes familiar and different from his own.

“Hey,” Odin says.

Olai looks at him. Then grins, “Hey, dickface, haven’t seen you in a while!”

“Language!” their mother shrieks, as they laugh, Odin rising from his seat to clasp Olai’s hand in greeting, coming together for a hug and slapping each other’s backs.

Olai takes his seat next to Odin, helping himself to a large portion of venison. He says, “You’ve been here a while, and you didn’t come to see me.”

“You didn’t come to see me either,” Odin remarks, cutting into his piece of meat. “I wasn’t exactly far.”

“Heard you demolished the girls in knattleikr.”

“Magpie and I did,” Odin explains, winking at his sister, who beams at him.

Freyja frowns, “You all played fair, right?”

“Yes,” they lie.

Bjorn turns to Olai, “You attended the council meeting like I asked?”

Olai sighs, grimacing, “Yes, and it was boring.”

“Good thing Odin’s gonna be the one in charge, huh?” Raven remarks, teasing.

“Ravenia, don’t taunt your brother,” Freyja chastises.

“I don’t really care. We all know Odin is the only one capable of this job, not to mention likes it,” Olai says. He turns to Odin, smacking his shoulder, “So, what’s going on with your head, lately? You haven’t murdered anyone in cold blood, have you?”

Freyja and Bjorn stare at Olai in disapproval.

“No, I have not,” Odin answers, grabbing his cup of mead and taking a heavy sip.

Olai places an elbow on the table, leaning his head on the raised hand, “I could’ve sworn you would have.”

“No one out there in the woods but me.”

Wrathia floats in the air, stretching her fingers down to graze the top of his brother’s head.

Odin gives her an annoyed glance, which Olai misses by beginning to eat his meal.

But Olai says, “It’s too bad there isn’t a way to get rid of her.”

“Too bad indeed,” Wrathia agrees, laying her head on Odin’s shoulder.

-

It’s well into the night when he leaves.

His parents pleaded, and his sisters complained, but Odin insisted to leave.

Wrathia hovers next to him. Then, she lays on her back, staring straight at the sky. She tries to inhale, and remembering that she can’t, doesn’t remember how it feels. Air in her lungs after a successful crusade, the heat of battle and sulfur, the soft whispers of her husband…

“Are you content of being with me forever?”

“What?” Odin asks.

Wrathia doesn’t tilt her head, gaze fixated on worlds she conquered, and lost. She says, “You are aware of what’s beyond your skies. Do you truly think there will be no impending danger in the future?”

Odin stops, staring at her. He asks, “What are you talking about?”

“When I got stuck with you,” Wrathia continues, not breaking her gaze at the sky, “your parents were terrified. I told them what had to be done, and they didn’t listen. They knew who I was. I knew how they _worshiped_ me—all your people did. I left you all to live as you pleased, and was seen as one of your gods of lore. But when I was slain, you all acted as though it didn’t restrict your lives at all.”

“That may be, but you did go out of your way to murder me multiple times.”

“I was trying to escape.”

“Isn’t that what landed you in this mess in the first place?”

“I _did not_ escape from my people! From my homeland!” Wrathia snarls, finally glaring at him, teeth bared. “There was no other option to save my kind. We had been threatened, and the possibility of being backstabbed was high. Even if we surrendered, there was no chance of survival.”

She was more bound to them than ever, trying to salvage the remains of a planet that may not even exist anymore. She did all she could to protect them, but there were thousands of risks and she chose the best option she had available. Instead, she was stuck with this insipid lifeform for eighteen years.

“Was that really the only option you had?” Odin questions. “You hadn’t thought about anything else?”

“And do what, genius? To hide like rats on the fringes of society? You’re a bigger idiot than I thought, if you think that would be enough to keep TITAN at bay.”

“You were the empress of the entire universe,” Odin says. “And you’re telling me you couldn’t think of anything else? But I guess that’s what happens when you think you’re indestructible. You open yourself to more problems that way.”

Wrathia narrows her eyes, “TITAN is unlike anything I’ve encountered. He arrived out of _nowhere_ , an army large and powerful enough to take down my kind. There hadn’t been time to prepare, and fighting was out of the question.”

“Even with the army you had? You had millions under your control.”

“I had thought of that, but there wouldn’t have been time to assemble them. It’s why I created all of my potions.”

“...Potions?”

“It’s how you and I are connected,” Wrathia explains, glancing at him. “With magic, I concocted brews of all sorts, all with the same purpose: to bond the souls of my warriors with that of another soul. Preferably, one stronger than us, but roulette is the game of the universe. You never know what you get.”

Odin asks, “These potions, how many did you send out?”

“Hundreds. But who knows how many of my warriors even drank them.”

“If they drank them, how would they remember what the plan even was? Or that you were the one to find and follow?”

Wrathia frowns, “The potions aren’t supposed to _rid_ the memories. But I’m not sure...”

Odin tilts his head to meet her eyes. She stares at him.

“You’ve never talked this much about your past before.”

Wrathia looks through the tree branches, light from the twin moons coloring them a pale version of themselves.

“You keep thinking that your planet will be safe from TITAN.”

“I do not think that.”

“You do,” Wrathia insists. “If you didn’t, you would heed my advice, and pact with me. TITAN doesn’t rest until he gets what he wants. And that means domain over all lifeforms.”

Odin walks ahead, mulling over her words. Her light dims behind him, distancing themselves from each other. Then she’s beside him once more, trapped in limbo, and the decisions she made.


	2. Ásynja

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odin searches for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It reached over 100 hits, so it seems like the response has been positive thus far! Let’s continue. Comments, kudos and feedback of any sort are welcome.

-

Goddess

-

What she said keeps him awake. Wrathia, nestled in the crook of his shoulder, feigns sleep, unable to truly do so. As he got older, she tended to do this and he stopped fighting it, knowing there was no point. He looks down at his ghost, conflicted.

There had been a time when he would’ve given anything to remove her. Her very existence was parasitic, and left him estranged from his family.

An option lay before him, and he hesitates.

Would it really be so easy? Would her possession of him be over, if he allowed himself to help her?

He isn’t sure what would happen. There are ramifications for everything, and making a deal with a demon will always have drawbacks.

Odin sits up, his figure passing through hers. Wrathia opens her eyes, angling her body to look at him.

“You’re finally thinking,” she states more than asks.

Odin turns to her, “What exactly happened to you?”

Wrathia shifts forward, kneeling beside him, “I’ve already told you.”

“I need more details.”

Wrathia gives him a glance. Then her gaze is distant, “I created my elixirs for hundreds of my warriors. On the final day of my life, my husband and I confronted TITAN. I drank mine, and I felt the poison down my throat. It didn’t take long for me to die. My husband… I am unsure of his whereabouts. I don’t even know if he had time to drink his own, as he may have had the intention of fighting TITAN himself.”

“Your husband was like you?” Odin asks.

“The strongest after myself,” Wrathia explains. “He was the one who suggested that we don’t hasten towards our demise. At the time, we had a child of our own, although who knows where they are or what became of them.”

Odin lifts his hand, “A moment please... you have a _child_ of your own?”

“Of course. How else would our dominion continue?”

“Obviously,” Odin remarks, rolling his eyes. “Why did you never _tell_ me that you had a husband or child?”

“What purpose would it serve me? You were too young at first, and as you were unwilling to hear me, including your family, there isn’t much to do. My plights wouldn’t have mattered.”

Odin shakes his head, sighing, “Fine. We’ll come back to that. What happened after?”

“My soul drifted for a while. It felt like… you know how when you’re laying down, and one of your limbs falls asleep?” At his nod, she says, “It’s like that. The nerves may feel dulled, but they vibrate in a different way, to remind you that it’s still there. Once I attached to you, I started to wake up, for lack of a better description.”

“What was the criteria for bonding with another?”

Wrathia unfurls her legs, folding them over each other, aware of his eyes on them. She says, “The main thing, was to find another soul strong enough to defeat TITAN.” She gives him a disappointed look, “I don’t know why I got saddled with you, but that’s how flimsy my idea was, I suppose.”

“It _was_ a risky idea,” Odin agrees. “I wouldn’t have done something with little probability of success.”

Wrathia points a finger at him, sneering, “Excuse me for not having time to do much else!”

Odin leans forward, finger on his chin, “What I don’t understand is how he could’ve hid for so long from you.”

Wrathia pouts, face held in her hands as she hunches over, “I know! That son of a bitch really got away from me. I might’ve been able to snuff him out if we’d been aware of him earlier.”

Odin takes a breath, thinking. There must’ve been some sort of way to discover TITAN’s whereabouts. But, truthfully, none of them knew of his presence until he had taken over.

Near the end of his first year on Aedinfell, as the first breath of frost misted along pine, his planet had been visited by a lone spaceship, unlike anything his people had ever seen. His parents had approached the transport with due care, and inside, they found various supplies, ranging from medical to perishable. Atop the boxes, laid a communication device.

Once it turned on, it read one message:

 

WELCOME TO TITAN CORP.

 

Two other visitations had occurred—the first was to meet with TITAN’s second-in-command, Strategos Six. No one, outside of his parents and the Council, are aware of the conversation that transpired between all of them. Odin had never seen Strategos Six in person, but Olai did.

Olai had described them as cold, lifeless. Bedecked in armor from head to toe.

 _Fascinating,_ was how Olai summed it up. Odin couldn’t understand a machine to be remotely interesting.

The second had been a spaceship again. It held another round of gifts and supplies, to show good will, but, like the former, remained untouched to this day. Soldiers had brought out the crates so that the spaceship could be on its way, but it never left the vicinity. Civilians asked his father what to do about it, and he said that it’s likely here because TITAN had no use for it. It was a smaller craft, could only hold several people, and probably wouldn’t be missed.

It was confirmed the following week, when his parents had decided to address the issue directly. Using the communication device left behind, they sent the query out. Another lone message descended from the heavens, reading:

 

FOR YOU. SHOULD WE NEED YOU TO COME TO US.

 

They had had little contact with TITAN since then, and no one has needed to leave, but it had been enough to understand the change. That things were different from then on. His family, royal dignitaries, ambassadors and politicians from other planets, slowly began to communicate less and less. Like the Strategos, many would need to travel from their own homes to Aedinfell, being more far advanced technologically on their own, or having received similar transportations as presents from TITAN.

The final time he had seen everyone had been when he was one and four-fifths old. Even then, he had caught that familiar faces were absent. Had noticed the trepidation in his mother’s voice when she would ask how so-and-so was doing, only to be told no one knows. Had noticed the grim expression on his father’s face when he was informed of… sudden travesties, as he put it.

He and Olai would spend most of the time together, his sisters too young to attend. There were children from those of noble birth attending, however, they only spent time with one. He had never cared too much for her to begin with.

Due to the changing atmosphere, and dwindling alliances, he had asked his parents, many years later, what that meeting entailed. As future king, he should have an idea of whatever treaty was created.

Both told him it was a formality. The entire universe is under new rulership, thus it was necessary for Strategos Six to meet with them.

“A welcoming party of sorts, my love,” Freyja told him, kissing his forehead.

The Strategos never came up in conversation after that.

It had taken TITAN some time to announce his reign. It’s plausible, then, that Wrathia may have, indeed, not had as much of a chance as he had conceived. Odin rises from the bed, heading to the window. He stares out into the dense dark.

Wrathia stretches out on the mattress, eyeing her host. She wonders how Pedri is doing, at times like these. They had little issues, few and far-between. Though, his presence was always comforting during those difficult times. His arms wrapping around her, giving her a sense of security she never allowed herself to revel in, except with him.

Did he die?

Died, without doing what he must?

Died, without ever meeting her again?

She can’t believe the notion. Pedri was capable and cunning. _Is_ capable and cunning. Although, no one can ever be sure...

“Wrathia.”

She looks at him.

“In the morning, we’ll be heading back to my family’s castle,” Odin says, coming back to sit on the bed.

Sitting up, she turns to him, “What will we be doing there?”

“Research.”

-

Dawn broke soon as Odin arrived to his old home. The entryway was vacant. He walked on until he reached the library, the smell of parchment comforting. He spent so much time here when he was smaller. His fingers graze over the top of a leather chair, along a wood end table that bore his ancestral crest on the drawer. A globe rests on it, showing the vast areas of his world: plentiful forests, infinite countryside, rocky fjords that towered over seas.

He peruses through the shelves, trying to find anything that may give him a sense of understanding. Wrathia floats behind him, scanning the titles.

Odin pulls out a large textbook on mythos, deciding anywhere is the best start. He opens to the index, finding the chapter he wants. Wrathia hovers over his shoulder, hand on the back of his neck.

She narrows her eyes, “Why are you researching about _me?_ ”

“You are the one I have the most knowledge about,” Odin explains. “From there, I will expand, and try to figure it out.”

“Why don’t you ask me more questions instead?” Wrathia asks. “This seems like a waste of time.”

“You’ve waited 18 years, you can stand a little more,” Odin replies, taking a seat at his preferred writing desk. “Besides, you admitted that some things are a little blurry. Your memory may not be as intact as you’d like it to be.”

“I have perfect recall, so you know,” Wrathia leans against him, resting her chin on his head. Her eyes skim over the words, reading along. Finding their views about her kind rather compelling: her sort are called jötnar in his native tongue. Devourers. Her hand plays with his hair, pleased at how dark it is. It makes things feel familiar.

“Master Odin?”

He turns, seeing Merita standing in the doorway. He greets her, “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you.”

“That’s alright,” Merita says, coming over to stand beside. “I was walking by and thought I would dust in here. What are you doing here so early, if I may ask?”

“Catching up on some reading,” he says.

Merita angles her head, peering at the book, “About our legends? Whatever for?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve looked at them. How is your mother?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Oh, my mom is doing well! Thank you for asking!” Merita says, smiling at him.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he responds, earnest.

Wrathia pouts, “Aren’t we in the _middle_ of something?”

Odin reclines in his seat, grinning, “Don’t mind me, I won’t be in the way.”

Merita gives a friendly salute and wink, which he returns, and they go about their business in comfortable silence.

Wrathia rolls her eyes, “Fucking nosy.”

Odin ignores that, keeping his gaze on the sentences. It’s the usual fare he’s grown up listening to. But he focuses on the words, trying to find patterns, clues.

The jötnar were of all kinds, wandering without qualm, eating nothing except living creatures, as their land, Jotunheim, lay barren from the infertile soil. In the story of creation, it is spoken that the Æsir, the first gods, are the responsible, prominent force in developing the earth. His namesake, half-devourer himself, ventured with his brothers to slay the jotunn Ymir, and from his corpse, blood spilling forth, causing lands to flood, eventually birthed all nine worlds.

His mother told him that this was necessary, as Ymir’s dead body was essential to life itself. Order from chaos.

His namesake is half-devourer. Half-jotunn. Half-other.

Odin often pondered that as a child, feeling a connection to the god. But where the Allfather embraced the volatile side of himself, Odin couldn’t understand it. The loss of control doesn’t sound appealing, nor the barbaric nature.

Odin flips the page, examining the image of Ymir. Massive quantities of blood cover terrain, the three brothers standing above his form. His fingers touch the picture, staring at the Allfather’s features. Getting up, he places a bookmark between the pages, then goes to the shelf where he found it.

Merita announces that she’s completed her task, and she’ll be on her way.

“Take care, say hello to Eiðunn for me,” he says.

“I will, thank you! Have a good day, Master Odin!”

With that, she exits the library, leaving the two of them alone.

“About time,” Wrathia complains. “How long does it take to clean?”

“Quite a bit, but you wouldn’t know that since you’ve likely never done chores.”

Wrathia scowls at him, “Snippy today, aren’t we?”

“I don’t think our staff deserves your sullen commentary.”

“It’s not like they can _hear_ me.”

“ _I_ can.”

“You’re so whiny. Then, I’ll just complain to you.”

“Very original.”

Wrathia tries to strangle him, and finds it irritating that he’s immune.

Odin glances at her, “If you’re going to be a pest, I’ll smoke.”

Wrathia’s eyes narrow, pointing a clawed finger at him, “You wouldn’t _dare_.”

He pulls out his pipe, waving it in front of her. He smirks, “It’s been a few days since I’ve smoked, I wouldn’t mind as much as you.”

“Argh, _fine!_ ” she exclaims, sitting on the desk.

Appeased, Odin continues looking through the stock of books about their history and legends. Their tales are mostly oral, but centuries ago, a scholar, under the stipulation of a distant Arrow ancestor, finally accumulated all of their stories and wrote them out. It made it much easier for everyone, and gave his people across the planet the ability to read.

Pulling out his chair, Odin opens another book, which includes several other myths, namely, the Four Creators.

It’s different from the legends of his people, but it goes back as far; possibly even further. Four Supreme Beings, infinite in might and size. Unable to remain close, their bodies harming each other, searing, colliding, never in harmony, they broke through boundaries of the universe. A feat nothing else could ever do. And no one should be able to.

From that point, they turned into minor gods and goddesses, though no less in power than the original Four. Despite new forms, memories laid in their skin. They fought each other in the names of whomever they emerged from, continuing a cycle that is eternal. Fixed. To show the strength of infinity, that Order, Chaos, Life, Death, are inescapable.

Odin leans forward, forefinger on his chin. It’s quite possible that Wrathia may be one of these, as it describes her well enough. And as she had been worshiped by their people at one point, it’s likely not that far-fetched. Maybe it’s too soon to know for certain, however, it’s a good theory and adds another dimension to what he knows.

Where _else_ could she originate from, after all?

He gives her a thorough look, stardust sparkling at the edges of her frame. Hair swaying without wind, trailing into nothingness at the ends. Features sharp and inhuman.

Magic created this connection. To eliminate magic, he has to either complete the spell, or counter it with magic of his own. Or he could die and be rid of her that way.

Odin rather likes not giving into temptation.

-

“You’re home!” Raven screams, jumping onto Odin’s back.

“Aack!” Odin chokes, feeling pressure on his esophagus. “Rae— Ngh, Rae, my—”

Raven releases him, “Don’t whine, it only suits you sometimes.”

Rubbing his throat, Odin smirks at her, “Only sometimes? That’s a half-hearted insult if I’ve ever heard it.”

“And make you cry? I like to build up to that,” Raven says, grinning. She plants herself in Wrathia’s spot, who had moved out of irritation. “Whacha doin’?”

“Reading.”

“Boooooring,” Raven says. “Can’t we go do something else?”

“You’ve known I’m home for two minutes.”

“Two minutes is too long to not do anything fun,” Raven insists, letting her body fall on his, arm on her head. “The seconds are counting by! Stuffy libraries aren’t cool!”

Wrathia sneers, glaring at the younger girl, “It was a lot better than listening to this drivel. Odin, send her out!”

Odin chuckles, easing away from her so that she sits next to him, each on the edge. Ignoring Wrathia’s protests, he ruffles his sister’s hair, “Did you escape a lesson?”

“I was good today. I stayed for 30 minutes instead of my usual 10. So there!”

“That counts for something,” Odin agrees. “And you’re not giving the instructors grief.”

Raven purses her lips, looking away while waving her hand in a so-so motion.

Odin laughs, “Can’t be perfect.”

“Says you,” Raven replies.

Wrathia curls her hands into fists, " _Excuse me?!_ I thought we were _preoccupied!_ ”

Odin sighs, turning to her, “Don’t shout, please.”

Raven stares at the air, “She buggin’ you?”

“No more than usual,” Odin says, feeling Wrathia’s body drift down next to him. “She’s annoyed you’re here.”

“Ooh no! Big, scary, reptile queen is annoyed? What, you gonna possess Odin to get me? I’m three seasons old, I can take him on.”

“You insolent little wretch!” Wrathia shrieks, eyes burning. “When I regain my true form, I will incinerate you! Your very soul will feel my flames!”

Odin winces at the volume, plugging his ear with his pinkie finger.

“Raven, where the hell are you?” Crow calls out. She peeks her head in, finding her sister. Then her eyes land on Odin, catching her by surprise. “Hey, when did you get here?”

“More people! Wonderful!” Wrathia exclaims, hands on her face.

“I’ve been here since sunrise,” Odin answers.

Raven whirls to look at him, “You’ve been here for _five hours,_ and you can’t take a break!”

“I’m in the zone!” Odin says.

Crow smacks his back, smiling, “Yeah, yeah, we know how you get when you’re focused.”

“Crow, is that you? Have you found Raven?” Magpie asks from the hallway. Approaching the room, she is about to address her sisters, then notices Odin. “You’re home!”

“Can’t get rid of me, I guess,” Odin jokes.

“I wish _I_ could!” Wrathia yells, circling over them, huffy.

Magpie embraces him, pecking a kiss on his cheek, “I love when you’re home!” She pulls back, arms still around his neck. “But, why? You normally takes months to see us after a visit.”

“I don’t have the texts I wanted to read at my place.”

Magpie holds out her hands, and he drops the book into them. Magpie’s eyes flicker over the pages, asking, “Why the sudden need to read our stories?”

“Merita asked the same thing.”

“You saw my girlfriend?!” Crow demands. “And she didn’t tell me you were here!”

“Trouble in paradise, Crow?” Raven teases.

“No, we’re perfectly fine! We talk about everything!”

Odin interrupts, “I think she understood I wanted privacy for a while. She came in here to clean and then left.”

“Ugh, she _is_ sweet like that,” Crow says, folding her arms.

Magpie suddenly says, “Speaking of Merita, can you and Raven go ask her what’s for lunch? That way Odin can finish up and we can eat afterward?”

“And why can’t you do it?” Raven demands.

“I’m going to ask Odin something real quick while he’s here. I’ll catch up with you two.”

At that, two of the triplets head off to the kitchen quarters, squabbling down the hall about what _should_ be made.

“Thanks for that,” Odin remarks. He looks at her, “What did you want to ask me?”

“Nothing,” Magpie answers. She grabs one of the smaller chairs, angling it to be next to his. She gives him back his book, walking over to a different section of the library. Standing on her tiptoes, she removes one with gold runes on the spine. Without needing to, the book’s inner hinge opens to a particular area from constant use. Taking her seat, she offers the book to him.

He glances at her, then the book. Accepting it, Odin reads the passage. Eyes widening.

“How… did you come across this?”

“You’re not the only one who tries to figure out what you are,” Magpie answers, hands folded in her lap.

Odin squints at the words, trying to make sure he isn’t misinterpreting.

There are people called Vessels.

Canisters for deities, they contain souls of immortals. It appears to happen at random, but there could be a connection of what makes a Vessel and what doesn’t. But a Vessel is always an individual who is twin-souled. There’s no mention of how a soul bond is positive or negative on the Vessel, only that it exists.

Odin glances at Wrathia, who had moved close to him again, while Magpie places a hand on his.

“But why you?”

“I wish I knew.”

-

During the entire lunch, Odin couldn’t eat much. His mind preoccupied with hundreds of questions, he tried to piece together all of the information.

He is a Vessel for Wrathia. Wrathia is a goddess-born-from-The-Four. She is half-devourer, bleeding into him, making him so.

Back in the library, Odin paces. From the moment he had memory, his parents warned him to beware of her tongue and nature. Even if they’d never said a thing, he would’ve. He’s felt her control his body and made him do things he didn’t want to do. She _is_ a curse, something to dispel.

Wrathia watches him, gaze a silent metronome.

He halts. Her eyes hold his.

“Did you know you were born from them?”

She shrugs, “I was worshiped, and wanted power, wanted to be obeyed. Somehow, I think I did. The Four Creators aren’t _new_ to me. Nevy would talk to me about them.”

“Who’s Nevy?”

“One of my strongest warriors. A queen and priestess on her own planet, she and I would talk about the Four Creators. Now was I aware that I was born from them? Hard to say, since, I think when we all split up, we became more… devotees of the Four as well as part of them. Does that make sense?”

“Yes. Like an incarnation.”

“Right. We are meant to serve them, represent them, and are born from them. Are them. We are all as old as time and space itself. Your tiny mind probably can’t comprehend it.”

“It’s not hard to imagine,” Odin replies. He walks up to her, her face tilting back to look up at him. “This situation is much broader than I thought, however.”

Wrathia looks away from him, down at the book open next to her. Odin picks it up, moving to the door and out into the hallway. Wrathia appears next to him, his footfalls sounding on the tiled floor.

Knocking on a door, he waits for permission to enter.

At the sound of his father’s voice, Odin opens the door. Approaching his parents, sitting by the hearth, he gives a polite bow.

“Odin, there’s no need for such formality,” Freyja says. Her eyes narrow in concern, “Are you all right? You hardly ate this afternoon.”

“I have something to ask you both.”

Bjorn beckons him closer. Odin does so, kneeling at his side.

“What is it?”

“I wanted to ask you about something I came across,” Odin says, pulling out the book. He opens it to a proper page, holding it out, “There’s a passage here about twin-souls, and I didn’t come across it before.”

Freyja is quiet as her husband takes the book from Odin. Bjorn’s fingers trail down the words, casual, “What made you want to ask us?”

“It’s interesting, but I’m at a loss about what other texts may have it. So I thought, maybe one of you would know?”

Bjorn glances at his son, “It’s self-explanatory material.”

“But is there anything else about it?” he insists.

Freyja stiffens in her chair, “Well… what exactly are you referring to? The concept of twin-souls in general? Or what it means?”

“Either would be helpful.”

“Twin-souls are a popular belief in many myths, Odin,” she tells him. “The idea of two souls has existed for longer than our civilization. In a culture almost similar to ours, there’s the idea of a ‘shadow-soul’, which is a soul that can freely leave the body.”

“I see. So this ‘shadow-soul’, it _is_ its own form outside of the body?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking. A shadow-soul is just that: a soul that shadows a body.”

“Sounds too simplistic for something like a soul,” Odin says.

Then, Bjorn recites, “The shadow self is a double of the prioritized soul, which follows the ego, the character or nature of the main body. A shadow self is a protector. And, too, a shadow self is the soul of a deceased person, now living as a shadow.”

Odin feels his throat clench. He swallows to clear it, “Is that what Wrathia is? My shadow-soul?”

Freyja is hesitant to agree, but nods. She finally asks, “What spurred this sudden need to ask?”

He opts for the truth. Deciding to get on with it, he admits, “I have learned I am a Vessel for Wrathia’s soul. Did the two of you  _know_ about this legend?”

A beat passes. Odin wonders, for the briefest seconds, if he should have said anything. This isn't a subject they're fond of going over. Wrathia is a sore spot for all involved, but where his siblings discuss it with him, his parents would prefer to never acknowledge the existence of the Vengess empress. But if anyone could understand anything, it has to be them. They're his parents. They know everything, including how to help him.

When they say nothing, his eyes become furtive, trying to have either respond. He turns to Freyja, who won't return his gaze. He reaches out, fingers over her ring. Not touching, but close, "Mom?"

His parents turn to one another in resignation.

Freyja stands up, brushing her fingers over her child’s cheek. She sighs, “It’s not that… we didn’t want you to know.”

“Then why say nothing?”

“You were already aware of your body being possessed,” Bjorn explains. “Any added knowledge about being a Vessel would be a minor detail at best, and an obsession at worst.”

“You think I would become obsessed?” Odin’s tone is disbelieving.

“It was never the right time. You were a boy. A child with limited control; learning the duties of what it means to be a prince, a leader,” Bjorn explains, rising from his seat. Out the window, the expanse of pine is blanketed by fog. “This would’ve distracted you. It was hard enough having to keep this in check. We know you, better than anyone. Your curiosity is not always appropriate. If you knew at a younger age, it would’ve changed your perception of your condition.”

“How, exactly, would it have done so?” demands Odin, voice steel.

Hands clasped behind his frame, Bjorn pivots to gaze at his heir. Carefully, he says, “You’ve proven my theory... You are aware. Want to do something. Chase it down, until you know everything. This is neither acceptable or possible.”

Odin rises, remarking his father’s aging features. The grey in black. Closing the distance between them, taller at a full year, Odin squares his shoulders.

“I am a prince, but I am also a Vessel. I haven’t been able to live my life because of this—I had all of you, but I never got to be around other people outside of the castle. They _fear_ me. Our castle staff is one thing, but our citizens bar themselves from me. How can I expect to lead the people of Aedinfell, if they don’t trust me?”

Freyja steps inside the gap, hand on her husband’s arm, “Odin, your father and I understand that this has never been easy. But we’ve been trying to keep you safe, to keep you _alive._ For us, that’s more than enough.”

Odin's brows furrow, gritting his teeth. He blurts, “What, lying by omission? By telling me to ask questions, only to hide the most imperative answers from me? What else have the two of you kept from me?”

“You will watch your tongue addressing your mother," warns Bjorn.

“ _You_ will earn the right to discipline me when you acknowledge you’ve done me wrong!”

Freyja’s hand rises to her chest, in shock at the venom from her son. She grips Bjorn’s arm tighter, in response to his muscles tensing.

“Is… Is she possessing you?”

“I am free to speak my mind,” Odin retorts, Wrathia laying her head upon his, hands limp.

“You’ve asked, and we’ve informed you,” Bjorn says, struggling to be even, unused to Odin raising his voice. “You can’t come here and start mistreating us because we didn’t tell you _sooner._ It wasn't time for you to hear the truth.”

“But to tell me when I’m a year old? When our customs say coronations are after an heir’s first year?”

Odin can't contain the growing friction in his body, alert and upset. A leader that is unable to control all aspects of his life will always struggle. How can they not understand that? That he doesn't feel ready. That he might not ever _be_ ready, even though he so desperately wants to be king, he... may not be cut from the same cloth as them. He hasn't been since Wrathia, flame and stardust, snaked through his body and _latched._

“We did this to protect you!” Freyja exclaims, heart racing. “We didn’t know _what_ to do about her! All the time, she made constant threats on your life, and nearly succeeded on many occasions!”

“Freyja—” Bjorn begins.

Her pitch increases, fearful, “I will not have my son go off gallivanting across the galaxy to—! To—! Find _nothing,_ except his own grave! Is that what you want? To leave our home without a king? To leave our family without _you?_ ”

Odin shakes his head, frustrated, trying to compose himself. To not rip out his hair, or clench his fists, “No, but I have to see this through. I have to figure this out!”

Bjorn angles his body, “I do not speak to you as a father. I speak to you as your king. If you endanger your life, you are dooming our very existence!”

Odin glares at him, disappointed in this display of cowardice. He walks away, fingers gripping the handle. He peers over his shoulder, into their eyes, fire in his throat.

“I hold the weight of a god inside of me. It must be released.”

-

“Told you your parents were no good,” Wrathia mocks.

“I do _not_ want to hear your useless prattle!” Odin snaps, pulling out his pipe. Leaves in the bowl, he tosses a few extra in. He flicks out his lighter, clicking the switch.

Wrathia hisses, trying to possess his arms, “Put that away! It’s not necessary!”

“I want to be left alone!” he argues, contempt and smoke in his chest.

Wrathia screeches at him, trying to stop his arms, his mouth. Feeling her ghost dissipate, Wrathia snarls at him, “Your sentimentality is pathetic! People lie to each other all the time, this is no different!”

Odin glares at her.

“You can’t rely on anybody, Odin. You know that,” Wrathia whispers, voice thinning out, until the thread they share snaps.

And he’s alone.

He inhales, purple wisps waving across his sight.

“She was real annoying today, huh?”

Olai comes into view, dark in the violet. He approaches his brother, leaning against the wall, arms folded.

“Too bad your ability to state the obvious can’t fade along with her,” Odin answers, smoke leaking out of his mouth.

Olai smirks, holds up his hands, “Someone’s fucking moody. Here I thought I’d be good and see how you were.”

“About what?”

“You got into an argument with our parents, right?”

“Yes… in a sense. Perhaps I’m overreacting…”

“Yeah?”

“I know they’ve only been trying to protect me,” Odin murmurs, biting down the mouthpiece. Rubbing the back of his neck, he sighs,  “It’s not as though they want to keep secrets.”

“Sure, but they’re still parents. By that logic, you can always count on them keeping secrets.”

“I sure do _love_ your cynicism,” Odin remarks, sarcastic.

“It’s gotten me this far."

“What do you mean by that?”

“Do you want to know a secret of my own?” Olai asks, changing the subject.

“...What kind of secret?” Odin’s curiosity piques.

Odin and Olai lock eyes, similar and different to their own.

Olai smiles, motioning him to follow through the smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "other culture" Freyja mentions is anything to do with Finno-Ugric beliefs from pre-Christian colonization; the concept of shadow souls, and two or multiple souls in one body, are more specifically Estonian and Hungarian.
> 
> Eiðunn - pronounced "eye-THOON"; of Old Norse eiðr "oath", and unnr "wave" or unna "to love".

**Author's Note:**

> Knattleikr is a game that is said to have been played by Scandinavians, mainly Vikings of Old Nordic origin. Very little is known about it, and it's largely guesswork from scholars about the rules and objective (so I took liberty with it), but the agreed opinion is that it was indeed rough, and violent to the point of extreme injury or death.


End file.
